Things That Do Not Die
by Impractical Beekeeping
Summary: Irene's thank-you present leads to an awkward, if long-overdue conversation between John and Sherlock. John experiences mixed feelings about having shot someone. A blackmail case leads them to investigate Milverton, a blackmailer previously connected with Moriarty. Mycroft requests that they examine a dead soldier's personal effects for clues. Songs of Expedience Part 6
1. The Tiger In the Room

**1: The Tiger in The Room**

* * *

"Still with me?"

"Agh! Yes," John grits out, through blood-streaked teeth. He spits. "Just get it over with."

"I'm trying," Sherlock says, tearing at the cloth with a savage hand. This is one of the times that being gentle isn't the same as being kind. "It would help if you didn't grip my shoulder quite so hard."

"Trust me. Right now you really, really don't want me to use your neck instead."

"Being strangled would not improve this, no. I need to see what I'm doing. Can you at least inch down a bit? With your hand, I mean. Obviously, the rest of you isn't going to manage it." Sherlock can feel pins and needles beginning in his right arm, possibly because John has got his fingers clamped around the joint of his shoulder. This, in turn, is causing some nerve impingement. Losing motor function at this juncture would be inconvenient, to say the least.

On the whole, they could have done without so many things: the unexpected housebreaker, the dog in the garden, and most notably, the razor wire. It's simply John's bad luck that the rain made him slip just as he was about to make it over the top, catching the leg of his jeans in the process. His torso is still protected from the wire by his jacket, but it's largely his grip on Sherlock that's preventing him from doing further damage to his leg, already seeping blood from a number of minor lacerations.

The fact that the brazen-tongued hellhound they'd heard behind them when they were marched into the garden at gunpoint later turned out to be an amiable and easily-evaded basset cast an air of pointlessness over the entire exercise. Escape over the fence had seemed like a brilliant idea at the time. Now it was all too clear that John's present predicament had been both avoidable and unnecessary.

"Wire cutters," Sherlock murmurs ruefully, although regret is generally a waste of time. "That would have been wise."

"Not doing this at all would have been wiser," John says. He has shifted his grip to Sherlock's upper arm, possibly bruising him in the process.

"This wasn't part of the plan."

"Oh, there was a plan?" John spits again. "I'm failing to see that at the moment."

"Of course there was a plan," Sherlock says, sawing through denim with his pocket knife, which is becoming duller by the second._ Cheap steel; replace immediately._ "But I'll admit that the gun was unexpected. This isn't America. We have laws."

"I have a gun," John reminds him.

"And you've left it at home, so well done there. Try not to twitch. I'm nearly through it."

"My leg or the fabric?"

"Very funny. I think you'd know the difference. When I say the word, can you heave yourself towards me?"

"What word?" John asks. His easy tone is inconsistent with the tremors running through the thigh Sherlock holds pinned against the stone.

" 'Please?' " Sherlock suggests, glancing up at his friend.

His face is ashen and wet with rain. Fresh beads of blood are welling up on his lower lip, bitten when he hit the the wall the first time he leaped and failed to clear it. He runs his tongue over it briefly, then spits again. "I'll try. Probably flatten you, though."

"I think that's inevitable," Sherlock agrees. "This rock I'm balanced on isn't terribly stable, and I'm going to be pulling you forward. Let's both aim to the left. There's some shrubbery."

"My left or yours?"

Sherlock delicately lifts the coil of wire with two gloved fingers pinching between the barbs. "Yours."

"All right. I'll try."

He wraps his right hand around John's waist, pushes up the wire with his left, and says, "Now."

They do make it into the hedge, which prevents them from falling directly into the mud, but scratches their arms and faces along the way. _"Taxus baccata," _Sherlock remarks, peeling himself out of the branches. They have helpfully twined themselves into his new scarf. This could have strangled him, but it didn't, so it isn't important. He glances over at John now, bent to examine his leg. "How bad is it?"

"Not very. I'm glad I believe in immunisations, though." He straightens, and looks at his raincoat, still draped over the wall. "Think I'll leave that where it is for now."

"Seems wise," Sherlock agrees. His own coat is lying wadded in the mud where he'd flung it before they'd used John's to scale the wall. In retrospect, that hadn't been the best decision.

"I suppose she's long gone," John says. "Having handed us off to the extremely dangerous and capable dog, she legged it."

"Yes." Sherlock retrieves his coat. It's remarkably damp. "I heard her car."

"Well. No chance we'll catch her, then. Cab or tube?"

Sherlock looks rather pointedly at John's shredded trouser leg and slightly less shredded knee. "Cab. If you can manage the walk back to civilisation."

John shoots him an incredulous glance. "This is what we in the medical profession like to refer to as a _mere scratch_. It's fine. _I'm_ fine. Oh, and I think most people do consider Hampstead Heath part of civilisation."

Sherlock starts to say something about _certain people who choose to live_—but no. He stops himself. Instead, he thinks about the house they've just left. Specifically, the bookshelves in the study. Something odd about the kitchen worktops, too.

They carefully pick their way through more hedges and over a surprising amount of mud, to emerge at last on the heath, where they'd begun their misadventure well over an hour ago.

"John," Sherlock says after they've been walking (or limping) down it for precisely two and a half minutes of companionable silence.

"What?"

"Someone searched the house before our arrival."

"Did they?"

Sherlock nods, which has the effect of running rivulets of water off his hair and into his eyes. He fights the impulse to sneeze. "I'm sure of it."

"Huh. And according to our lovely informant, he'd only just left on holiday. That's an awful lot of housebreaking, if you include us _and_ our mystery woman."

"Well. No one likes a blackmailer."

John laughs at this, but then frowns almost immediately afterwards, as if he has been reminded of something troubling.

Sherlock asks, "Do you need to stop?"

"Hmm?" John blinks, water beaded on his pale eyelashes, and follows Sherlock's pointed stare back to his own leg. "God, no. I can hardly feel it, what with this icy rain." He shivers. "That's its own problem, but I'll live."

"Good." They keep on, aiming for one of the cafes.

Later, when their cabbie looks aghast at John's leg and their scratched faces, Sherlock says, "It's all right. He's a doctor." This would ordinarily result in a certain amount of inappropriate laughter, but now it yields only a modest snort from John.

To be fair, it has been an extremely taxing day.

* * *

John is in the shower, trying to raise his body temperature to normal levels, and thinking about tigers.

He has reason. A carved and painted figurine had appeared, quite without warning, on his bedside table several days ago. When he'd asked about it, Sherlock had, he could see now, been evasive.

"It was a thank-you gift," he'd said. "Addressed to me, but intended for you. I merely delivered it."

"Thank you for what?" John had asked.

"Sebastian Moran." Sherlock dismissively returned his attention to the book in his hand, and before John could ask any further questions, the matter was shelved by Mrs. Hudson telling them they had a visitor. A client.

She was the victim of a persistent and inventive blackmailer called Milverton. She was also his ex-wife. Naturally, Sherlock was interested, and all thoughts of the mysterious gift were superseded by the case.

That very day, John was despatched to question Milverton's cleaning lady. He managed this by deflating the tyre of her car, then conveniently happening by in the street as she exclaimed over the damage. He'd helped her install the spare and didn't argue when she invited him out for a coffee.

Laima was a clever and attractive woman, clearly wasted on professional cleaning. When she told John she'd worked in a radiology lab back home in Lithuania, he took the time to offer some impromptu career counselling. In exchange, he learned quite a bit about her employer's habits and holiday plans.

Diversions such as these drove the tiger from his mind, but at night he looked into the small snarling face beside his alarm clock and vowed to raise the subject with Sherlock again soon.

Now, in the shower, as he scrubs at his arms and tries not to let the soapy water run over the cuts on his leg, he resolves to revive the conversation at once. He'd rather not think about Sebastian Moran at all, but he's beginning to suspect that the man he shot is the least of his potential worries.

The suspicion he's entertaining is completely mad. But when he combines what little information he has with Sherlock's evasiveness...well. He'd prefer to be sure.

* * *

Freshly clothed, towel draped around his neck, John emerges into the sitting room. Sherlock is in his pyjamas now, and greets him with an unexpected, if welcome, cup of tea.

"Thanks," John says, feeling slightly derailed by the gesture. He settles into his chair with a sigh, and adds, "There's something I've been wanting to ask you about."

"You're not the only one," Sherlock returns. "I've had a text from Lestrade asking me what I know about a mysterious raincoat left on a garden wall in Hampstead."

"Oh god."

"Apparently, there's footage of two men approaching and entering the very house said garden is attached to. It seems the place has been under surveillance."

"By Lestrade's team? Was there a murder?"

"No, someone in another division thought the men on the video looked familiar. Or to be precise, they asked our dear DI why Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were breaking into a suspect's house."

"Did you explain?"

"I told him I had no idea what he was talking about."

"I can't imagine that will hold for long."

"Probably not, no. I believe your raincoat still says _Watson_ in the collar." Sherlock tosses his mobile on the table, and himself into his chair. "You've got a question, though." He tilts his head inquiringly.

"Ah. Yes." John briefly closes his eyes, and states, "The tiger."

"Oh, that."

"Yes, that. You said someone sent it to you, but that you felt it was intended for me. What I want to know is, who sent it?"

"Someone who was glad to see Moran dead. Obviously."

"Okay. At the time, I was distracted, so I didn't press you for the complete answer. But today, while I was on the wall, it occurred to me that I really should have. So. Narrow it down a bit?"

"The note wasn't signed." Sherlock studies his own cup of tea as if it's fascinating. John knows it isn't.

"It didn't need to be, though, did it?"

"No."

"Well?" John has learned, through long experience, that staring at his flatmate without blinking can occasionally produce results. He does so now.

Sherlock stares back, trying for blankness. John offers him a pleasant smile, and takes a sip of tea.

"It was...a former confederate of Moriarty's," Sherlock says, at last.

John nods. "One who is neither dead nor in prison. That narrows the field. What's her name?"

Sherlock blinks. _"Her_ name—that's impressive, John."

"I noticed a faint perfume smell. Which, ah, generally, is not one I associate with anything in my room. So. Inexplicable tiger...Perfume...Sent by a woman, then. Why won't you tell me her name?"

He sighs, and after a moment's grudging silence, he says it. "Not a woman, John. _The_ Woman."

John suppresses the hysterical laugh bubbling up inside him. "Now that _is_ strange."

"Because she's supposed to be dead?" Sherlock asks, which is a mistake.

"No. Because just now, when you said that, I had an incredibly strong impulse to punch you in the face. I'm not actually going to," he adds.

"That's a shame. Might be easier than an explanation."

"Thematically appropriate, though. If we're talking about Irene Adler."

Sherlock flicks a cautious glance at John's face. "Yes."

"What is _also_ extremely interesting to me is that you seem to think I believed her to be dead. Why would you think that?" John asks, pleasantly.

Sherlock starts, almost imperceptibly. "Oh."

"Yes, _oh._ I told you she was alive and in America, if you'll recall. So now I'm going to ask you something else. Does Mycroft know she's alive?"

"He does now."

"Did he know that over a year ago? Because he told me to lie to you. That she was, in fact, actually dead." John licks at the broken skin on his lip, and adds, "I'm not fond of telling lies."

"I know."

"So, what? You knew I thought I was lying when I told you she was fine?" John asks, incredulous. "And you didn't say anything?"

"Of _course_ I knew! I was instrumental in preventing her death."

"Were you."

Sherlock turns the cup in his hands. "I thought it unlikely we'd see her again, and you've always appeared to find her...distressing."

"Never mind that. What exactly did _instrumental_ entail?"

"Do I take it you are bent on having this conversation now?" Sherlock asks, testily.

John nods. He's not getting out of this one.

"Fine. What were you told that made you believe she was dead? Were you shown evidence?"

"Your brother said she'd fallen into the hands of Al Quaeda. That they killed her."

"Not entirely accurate. She did run afoul of a terrorist organisation in Karachi. I know some people. I got her out." Sherlock shrugs.

"Just like that? Mycroft seemed awfully sure she was dead. That there was video of her execution. How did you manage to slip _that_ past him?"

"The footage wasn't complete. There's a reason for that."

"So, what? You took a flight to _Pakistan,_ stormed the enemy stronghold and stopped an axe with your very own hands?"

Sherlock laughs. "Don't be ridiculous. Although, it _is_ funny that you say that..."

"Oh? I'm afraid I'm failing to see the humour in this, Sherlock."

"Irene was in a bad state. Malnutrition and sedatives. So she seemed to think that was more or less exactly what I _had_ done. Ridiculous, really."

"So you didn't do that."

"God, no. I know a man...well. No need to go into all of that." Sherlock clears his throat. "I never even left the flat. Mycroft was going through one of his more ridiculous Big Brother periods at the time. You were out of town that week, so it was all quite simple."

"I see." Naturally, Sherlock would have to be blithe about all of this, as if any of John's potential objections were unreasonable and silly. John is fairly certain they are well founded, though. It's Irene.

"It wasn't even that much of an adventure," Sherlock continues, as if that is, in any way, reassuring. "It all happened ages ago. So why are you so angry?"

"Well. Leaving aside the secrecy—actually, no. Leaving aside your _recklessness_ in getting involved, on any level, with a terrorist organisation—"

"All of which happened in the distant past—"

"—it is frankly disturbing to hear that you've been in contact with Irene fucking _Adler_ all this time. After everything that happened."

"Not much contact. We don't have meaningful conversations," Sherlock says. "And I quickly disabused her of any romantic notions regarding her rescue."

"Oh, well, that's fine then," John says.

"You're being sarcastic."

"Yes, I bloody well am!" John presses his hands against his eyes and breathes deeply.

"You still don't trust her," Sherlock ventures, after an uncomfortably long pause.

"Good deduction," John says, calmer now. "No. I don't. I don't like what she did to you. She's not a very nice person."

"Nor am I, yet you seem not to mind that very much. What about _her_ is so disturbing?"

"Aside from the obvious flaws, like her being a blackmailer and having worked with Moriarty, she's manipulative and artificial, and..." John decided he might as well be honest. "Look, I was worried sick about you. When she—when she died, that first time. You seemed so...broken." He clears his throat. "I thought you might have been a bit in love with her, to be honest. I had no idea what to do."

Sherlock looks at him as if he's said something monumentally stupid. "What? Why would you think that? Because she's reasonably intelligent? Because she's subjectively attractive? Because she's good with a whip? What?"

"You mean you weren't?"

"I found her fascinating, but that's not the same thing; certainly not as you mean it. After all, you find _me _fascinating. That doesn't mean you're in love with me."

John's face moves through an impressive series of spasms in short order. "Ah. No," he manages.

"Right then," Sherlock says. "Exactly. Are we finished?"

"So fine, you're not in love with her. That's...reassuring. I'd just thought—well. She seemed to think you were worth making an exception."

Sherlock looks at him blankly. "Exception. Exception to what?"

John is blushing now, he's fairly certain. But he carries on. "She, ah. She described herself as gay. But she also implied that she didn't consider that a barrier as far as you were concerned. And I must say, her generally predatory behaviour towards you backed that up."

"Sex wasn't part of the equation," Sherlock says. "I know what she said, but that wasn't a real danger."

"How could it not be? It's what she does. For god's sake, when we met her, she was naked."

Sherlock laughs. "Oh no. _That_ was a demonstration of power, but not the sort you think. She wanted to confound me, and she succeeded. When I looked at her, I came up blank."

"She left you nothing to deduce, you mean?"

"Oh, there was plenty of information. Her hair. Her cosmetics. Her perfume. Her voice. But all of it was calculated to add up to the wrong sum. Artfully, I must say. That was what intrigued me. It was so beautifully done."

"So the actual nudity meant nothing?"

"Well. Obviously, it made _you_ uncomfortable. To me, it was a direct challenge. It told me that she knew she was good enough to deceive anyone (or, indeed, me) without resorting to the usual trappings. It was a joke, in a way, about her ability to hide in plain sight."

"And the flirtation? The threats? She drugged you and threatened to flog you."

"Theatrical, wasn't it? A caricature of the dominatrix." Sherlock smiles faintly, as if in fond remembrance. "It was just a performance, John."

John shakes his head, vehemently. "I told you, we talked. Her flirtation was more than a performance." He won't mention Irene's analysis of his own relationship with Sherlock, because it was ridiculous.

Sherlock frowns slightly. "I made it clear that I had no intention of sleeping with her."

"I'm not sure she meant to take your feelings into account."

"A professional of her calibre does not operate without consent. Other than the blackmail, she performed her services ethically."

"I'm sure she did. It's her personal life that worries me. Or don't you remember that she was in the habit of drugging her girlfriend? For fun?"

"Sexual relationships are complicated. Or so I am given to understand," Sherlock says, waving his empty cup dismissively. "It's not an area that interests me much beyond its role in criminal motivation."

"Really."

"Yes, really."

John coughs. "Well. In all the time I've known you, it is true that you've never actually said."

"Said what?"

"You've never expressed any sexual preference."

"My _preference _is to avoid the entire mess altogether. That should render any further classification unnecessary."

"Right." John shakes his head. "I know. You consider your work more important than relationships. See, to me, that doesn't seem healthy."

Sherlock snorts. "Forgive me if I'm disinclined to take your opinion to heart. You've had a dizzying array of girlfriends in the time I've known you, and you can barely remember their names. Is that considered healthy?"

"I never had a chance," John protests. "You sabotaged my dates."

"I'm hardly an inexorable force, John. You are more than capable of asserting yourself. Your girlfriends have been brief diversions, at best."

John can't argue with this, if he thinks about it. Not entirely. He's not good at maintaining relationships. But unlike Sherlock, he doesn't reject the concept out of hand, so he says, "Never mind my pathetic love life. I just find it concerning that you have decided to ignore a basic human need altogether. What about love? Or companionship?"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "What about them? Why must those have anything to do with sex? I have an annoying brother, a few good friends, and one exceptional friend. Anything more than that exceeds my requirements."

John, exceptional friend that he is, lets it rest.

* * *

**Notes:**

This story is dedicated to **WhenISayFriend**, who has listened to me wail and gnash my teeth over the contents for far too long. Hopefully, you'll be glad that I've finally managed to get them off the fence. Yes, I _was_ smirking when I typed that.

With regards to Irene: I have *always* had problems with the _Scandal in Belgravia_ episode. For one thing, Sherlock can deduce PLENTY of information without looking at someone's clothes. Nudity is not going to short-circuit his brain. And maybe it's just me, but I think Sherlock riding to the rescue when Irene is about to be decapitated is fraught with so many problems, it's hard to enumerate them all. It felt like a bad fantasy, so I made it one. I have other problems with the episode, but this is a start.

I hope to add another installment to this soon! Remember, a comment is an encouragement. ;)


	2. Let the Punishment Fit the Crime

**2: Let the Punishment Fit the Crime**

* * *

Eventually, John goes up to bed. Sherlock waits for the clatter of the pipes signifying that water has been run upstairs, a shuffle of footsteps, the rattle of pills in a bottle, and the small, solid sound of a closing drawer.

After an agonising five minute display of self control, Sherlock picks up his phone.

**Enjoying Crete? You should stay there. **

He doesn't sign it, as he always used to, but waits, watching the blinking cursor. It doesn't take long.

_No. I'm tired of hats and suncream and sad stray dogs. _

**Pity. Knossos would suit you.**

_Not my sort of ruin. _

**Of course. You'd rather destroy things yourself. **

There's a pause before the answer arrives.

_Didn't he like it, then?_

**No.**

_You didn't have to give it to him. _

**I don't have to do anything.**

_Did you tell him I sent it?_

**No need. He isn't stupid.**

_From you, that's practically a love heart._

Sherlock scrapes his teeth together.

**How _is_ Kate?**

_My, you're transparent when you're angry. _

**Opacity wasn't the point. **

_So you had an awkward conversation._

**He loathes you. **

_After all this time? I'm flattered._

**He feared you'd corrupted me. I set him straight. **

_Oh, my dear. That's immensely funny._

**Is it? **

_Humour never was your strong suit. _

**Perhaps you should be more amusing.**

_Oh, am I dull now? We're still chatting..._

**Just making my position clear.**

_No. You want to talk to someone you don't have to lie to._

**I don't lie. **

_Lies by omission are still lies._

**When did you start delivering lectures on morality? **

_Does telling someone he's a bad, bad man count?_

**Not if you're wielding a whip at the time. Even less so if he's paid you to.**

_Sometimes I can be persuaded to do it for free. _

**Not interested. **

_I owe you._

It's an unfortunate turn of phrase.

Sherlock thinks of apples and fairy stories and the feel of the air slamming out of his lungs upon impact. He exhales, slowly, before he manages his reply.

**Yes. You do. So stay out of London.**

_Or what?_

**I remind my brother you exist.**

_Would you do that? I'm an investment. You did save my life. _

**And are you enjoying your reincarnation?**

_I recommend it highly. Tax bills, old lovers, men with guns: all is erased. _

**Is it, though?**

_Close enough. You're an exception. _

**Obviously. **

_So tell me. Did he forgive you?_

**Who?**

_You know exactly who._

**Of course he has. **

_And he's at Baker Street?_

**He never left.**

_No? That seems unhealthy._

**He's loyal. **

_Rather than obsessive?_

**No.**

_Really? I'd say it's the first word that comes to mind. He makes a lovely little satellite, doesn't he?_

**Don't be absurd.**

_It's a perfect analogy. You'll keep him circling at arm's length forever._

**What makes you think our friendship isn't mutually beneficial?**

_The fact that you haven't left him room for anything else._

**He does what he likes. **

_Does he? I'm not sure simply dressing himself and doing the shopping amounts to total autonomy._

**How the hell would you know?**

_Understanding people is my area of speciality. _

**I'm aware of your professional biases. Don't attribute bizarre power dynamics to every human relationship.**

_I don't have to. _

**He is my friend. If he isn't happy, he's free to leave at any time.**

_I do hope you haven't expressed it to him in those terms. It's bad form._

**Spare me any further analysis. **

_I've got to repay my debt somehow, darling. You've made it perfectly clear you won't accept the usual currency._

**In the unlikely event that I ever need your help, I'll let you know. In the meantime, kindly go to hell. **

There is no sigh as the answering text arrives several minutes later, but he remembers exactly how it used to sound.

_How about Paris? It's closer. _

_We can have dinner. _

* * *

John wakes in the middle of the night, feeling as if he has fallen from a great height. That, or he's been punched in the chest.

Or shot.

It's not something to forget, that. The loud report, the spinning fall. An invisible hand slamming him down into the hot earth, shrouding him in dust, stealing his breath. The pain that comes later.

Years have passed since he was shot in the shoulder, and while the memory doesn't appear as often as it used to, it still pops up in his dreams like an unwanted song on a relentless, hateful jukebox. In rotation now, of course, with the sight of Sherlock falling. If he's extremely unlucky, he combines the two things: he shoots, and Sherlock falls.

Logically, dream-Sherlock is bound to start shooting John at some point, but thus far, he's been lucky. Maybe it's the music. Or at times, the discord. Either way, his subconscious seems to have decided that Sherlock cannot fire a gun and play the violin at the same time. Or smash things in the kitchen—that has been known to happen as well.

Tonight, Sherlock's playing actual, recognisable music, and John is grateful for the noise. Again.

He hates it that he can never tell if he's been screaming out loud. His throat is raw, but that's not really enough to prove anything, really.

What it probably proves is that there's a perfectly good reason why he sleeps alone. It isn't that Sherlock sabotages his dates.

It's that John doesn't want to have to explain the screaming.

Here, he doesn't have to.

* * *

It's a lovely room, if a bit old-fashioned in its decor. Early afternoon sunlight streams in through crisp white curtains, glinting off the gold-ornamented china tea service laid out before the two men.

"It really is astounding what one can manage with voice recognition software these days," Mycroft Holmes says, pouring out a cup of tea. "Although, as I understand it, flawless diction is an absolute necessity." He takes a sugar lump from the bowl with silver tongs, and drops it carefully into Charles Milverton's cup.

The other man says nothing, but accepts the tea with his left hand. His right is gloved in black leather, and rests neatly on his thigh.

"You've been quite prolific, Charles," Mycroft continues, smoothly. "I can't say I care for your subject matter, but your output is impressive."

"You've read my books?"

Mycroft offers him a modest smile. "Did I convey the impression I was referring to your fiction? How unfortunate. No. I was referring to your predilection for blackmail."

He hadn't really expected a response to this. Charles Milverton returns his gaze with limpid brown eyes, seemingly untroubled by the accusation.

"Perhaps I should mention that this little meeting is wholly unmonitored by the police," Mycroft continues. "You might as well be frank. It saves time."

"Perhaps you'd better tell me why I'm here, then. I assume it's nothing to do with fond reminiscences of our school days."

"Regrettably, no. What I am interested in, Charles, is your timing."

"I'm sorry?"

"I should explain. You see, several years ago, you augmented your income with a foray into blackmail. Your targets were carefully chosen, so you managed not to call much attention to yourself. That said, six years ago, you voluntarily restricted yourself to more legitimate trades. Some people _might_ consider this evidence of your reform, but recent events indicate otherwise."

"I have no idea what you mean," Milverton begins, but Mycroft cuts him off with a raised hand.

"Please. Don't insult either of us by pretending you've nothing to do with Lady Blackwell's recent suicide. In this day and age, the connection is easily proved. Despite what you think, you've left an electronic trail a mile wide, and I have every confidence the police will make full use of that. As I say, it's your timing that interests me. Why start up again after years of inactivity? This is hardly the first time you've experienced a financial setback this decade."

Milverton's downwards glance is fleeting, but it's telling enough.

"Just as I thought. It is said that a man can be judged by the quality of his enemies. You should be proud. Yours were nothing short of extraordinary. I say _were,_ because two of them died rather recently, didn't they?"

"If you know who they were, then you also know they'll not be missed."

"No, indeed," Mycroft agrees. "Suppose you begin by describing what happened to your right hand. I understand your NHS records are a bit hazy on that point."

The other man pushes his cup and saucer aside, removes the glove from his right hand, and spreads it out over the linen table cloth. It would be a perfectly ordinary human hand, were it not for the way each finger terminates abruptly at the distal interphalangeal joint. "I should think it's obvious. He took my fingertips off."

"And neatly done, it was, too," Mycroft remarks, surveying the smooth scar tissue without affect. "Very...surgical."

Milverton withdraws his hand, and replaces its glove. "Oh, it was. He even administered an anaesthetic."

"Fascinating. Did he explain why?"

"He said physical pain wasn't the point. Recited a song from the fucking Mikado. The man was a dangerous lunatic."

"So I've been given to understand."

"He thought I'd never write again, but I showed him, didn't I?" The blackmailer-turned-author smiles thinly. "Won the Booker three years later."

Mycroft nods. "But it wasn't until he died that you returned to blackmail and slander. Which is, incidentally, what drew you to my attention. That and the fact that your wife—"

"—My _ex_ wife."

"I _am_ sorry. She, ah...recently engaged my brother's services, unaware that the police were already making their inquiries." Mycroft pours himself a second cup of tea and continues. "All that's beside the point, really. I'd like to know why Sebastian Moran did it. What was your previous connection with the man?"

"We had a mutual employer."

"Jim Moriarty, was it?"

Charles Milverton cannot quite restrain his distaste. "Yes. Him. I introduced them, as it happens."

"Did you. This is already exceeding my expectations." Mycroft clasps his hands together with restrained glee. "More tea?"

"I—yes, fine." Milverton watches the stream of tea falling into his cup, and continues. "I'd been working in the MOD. Strictly a clerical position, you understand."

"Of course. I remember." The two men had been to school together as youths. Mycroft kept to himself, for the most part. Milverton struck him as a social climber and a bigot. They'd met again as adults, briefly, in a hallway at the Ministry of Defence. Mycroft remembered thinking the other man was flashily overdressed at the time, his dark hair gelled within an inch of its life.

He dresses more tastefully now, as befits a critically acclaimed (if not best-selling) author. His hair has been allowed to grey around the edges, and his lambskin bomber jacket, while casual, appears to be an Armani. His shoes are somewhat less practical, glossy and pointed. Fair enough: judging by the man's shape, he doesn't do much walking these days.

"Moran's name crossed my desk during my time there," Milverton says. "His details corresponded with a certain data set I'd been asked to...to be on the lookout for. So I passed his name along."

"Frankly, I'm surprised. His file should have been restricted."

"Oh, it was. Some of us were aware of certain classification protocols, though. I couldn't have told you his regiment, for example, or even where he served, but there were codes associated with his file that I'd been taught to recognise."

Mycroft sighs. It's too late now.

"I wouldn't have remembered him later, only I took a fancy to his name when I saw it. Something in the sound, you see. I am a writer, after all." Milverton swallows. "By the time I met him in person, several years had passed. No mistaking who he was, though."

"What do you mean?"

"Moriarty didn't exactly hold corporate retreats. People in different branches of the organisation never met. I daresay most of us had legitimate jobs outside the network. Some of us were in contact, though, and there were stories."

"Stories about Moran."

"Yes. Psychopath, assassin, creepy fucker, that sort of thing. Someone started a rumour that he was paid in books and guns, and to be honest? It didn't seem that unlikely. He didn't have much to say, not that Jim would have let him or anyone else get a word in edgewise. What he did say, though, was always a bit...weird. They said that if he quoted you poetry, you were properly fucked. Mind you, most people never actually saw him."

"Yet you did. Why was that, do you think?"

"There was a soldier who had died a few years after his return to England. He'd managed to blot his copybook overseas, so I'd some leverage. The family were wealthy and had a reputation to maintain. Standard operation, really. They paid up, Moriarty got his cut, and all was happy and bright. Until _he_ showed up."

Mycroft does not remark upon their differing interpretations of happiness and/or brightness. He maintains a tone of polite interest. "He being Moran?"

"Precisely. So first, he wants to have a little chat about my novel."

"That would have been...Falling Down It, I believe?"

"You've read it?" The man's vanity beggars belief.

"Yes." Mycroft leaves it at that.

"Well. We talked about it. Literary devices and that sort of thing. Then he up and tied me to a chair. Strapped my hands to the arms."

"You were alone in the house, I take it."

"Yes. He had a gun."

'I see."

Milverton closes his eyes for a second, and then continues. "He'd brought a rucksack along with him. He opened it up, and started laying things out on the table. My kitchen table."

"What sort of things?"

"There was a small glass bottle, a hypodermic needle, and a box of gauze." He shudders, lost in memory. "Nitrile gloves. A scalpel. No. Come to think of it, I never did see the scalpel."

Mycroft takes a sip of tea and waits.

"He tied a towel over my eyes. Then he injected my right hand. Casually, like he was a dentist. He said it might hurt a bit."

"You had mentioned an anaesthetic...?"

"Yes. A local. He didn't...He didn't start the cutting until my hand had lost all feeling. He checked. He said pain was not the point. We sat for ages, waiting for it to go. He made me tell him about the dead soldier. And he said he wanted me to remember him and think before I spoke. Before I wrote. Then he recited the Gilbert and Sullivan thing. Said he couldn't sing."

"And he cut off your fingers."

"Yes."

Mycroft selects a Bourbon from the plate in the centre of the table, and carefully bisects it with his teeth. He lays the other half on his saucer, and once he has finished chewing, he sighs and dabs at his mouth with a napkin.

"Let us return," he says gently, "to the dead soldier."

* * *

**Notes:**

Many thanks to **eohippus** for reviewing chapter one, and thus providing encouragement for me to continue!

It seems that Irene has recovered from her slump. My secret subtext for their conversation is that Sherlock subscribes to Wunderlich's Knossos-as-funerary-complex theory, and is hoping she'll fall into one of the pithoi that may or may not have been used to store human remains.

Incidentally, she should know better than to invite Sherlock to dinner. Paris has a lovely ossuary beneath the streets, after all.


End file.
